


brushstroke of a cello string

by Coara



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coara/pseuds/Coara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>„I never thought you’d be the type of woman for a tattoo on the back of her thigh.“ Frowning, Joan looks over her shoulder and sees his eyes firmly glued to her behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	brushstroke of a cello string

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wb_michael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wb_michael/gifts).



> A friend of mine (@wb_michael on twitter) and I were talking about Joaniarty and he came up with this wonderful idea "Jamie marking Joan with her signature". So I took it and tried to turn it into something.

_Fingers are dragged across her back, painting red streaks on her skin, bizarre forms and engraving themselves in her mind with the pleasure they cause. Her throat feels tight as she gulps down her breath, while moans try to escape. A strange symphony of sounds, her own name whispered into her ear by a familiar voice. That voice, caressing, soothing, arousing, causes shivers to run down her spine. Teeth sink into her flesh, leaving marks all over her, an abstract way of mapping the landscape that is her body. Words of adoration, terms of art she doesn’t understand with her lust clouded mind, are murmured with a small smirk on those beautiful lips as they travel over every mark. Again and again and again. Until her whole body ignites, muscles clench, fingernails dig into the skin that moves against hers and a groan, scream - a crescendo, the final note - seems to rip her vocal chords, before the room goes silent. Heartbeats, heat, gasps mingle as their bodies relax, exhausted, drifting off to sleep._

_„Darling.“, a whisper against the curve of her neck, accentuated with a kiss._

 

Joan Watson startles awake, one hand flying to her chest and still rapidly beating heart. A breeze through the open window cools the sheen of sweat on her skin, making her shiver and cover herself again with the blanket that is pooling at her ankles. The pictures of her dream let her breath hitch again. It felt so real. The pulsing heat between Joan’s thighs let her muscles clench in anticipation for the next touch, the next caress from a lover that isn’t, wasn’t there. Her hands rub over her face, trying to shoo away the fog of sleep. The cloth of the blanket moves against her naked skin as she stretches from head to toe, muscles contracting, joints cracking.

Joan stops mid-motion, flipping the cover off her again. She is pretty sure she wasn’t naked when she went to her room last night. As she looks down her own body, skin covered with small dark blotches, she can hear a chuckle, whispered words painting her memories in a bright red color.

„ _What would Sherlock think if he saw us now, my dear Watson?“_

Joan groans, burying her face in her hands and cursing under her breath. Pictures are coming back to her, flooding her mind and making her blush. Embarrassment or arousal Joan doesn’t want to decide.

They solved a case with Moriarty’s help. Even Sherlock thanked her after they arrested the murderer of several young women. Euphoria, adrenaline, a dangerous mix of chemicals made Joan accept Moriarty’s offer for some drinks. 

„It seems the alcohol did the rest. Fuck.“ she mutters as she steps into the shower.

 

#

 

On every other day running clears Joan’s mind. Of unsolved cases, of her mother who always wants to know how the date went with suitor XY-WhatsHisName and of Sherlock and everything that comes with him. 

Her muscles are sore and her lungs are burning. Right after the shower she slipped into her running gear and went straight out, avoiding Sherlock and his ‚I know what you did last night‘-look. Because he would know. Joan doesn’t know how, but this morning she really doesn’t want to deal with him. Or his problem that turned into hers.

The music blaring from her headphones does nothing to keep Moriarty’s, _Jamie’s_ voice out of her mind. Even now, after minutes and minutes of workout, the throbbing arousal doesn’t quiet down.

Joan stops in front of a small café, her stomach grumbles, complaining about the missed breakfast. She looks at her reflection in the window for a moment. A sound of displeasure leaving her lips when she sees one of the many hickeys only half hidden by the collar of her now sweat stained shirt. She tugs at the cloth to cover the mark and rolls her eyes. Seriously, they’re not teenagers anymore who have to leave lovebites for everyone to see on each others body. 

Still, Joan shivers at the memories of Jamie - no, Moriarty, she chastises herself in her thoughts - biting and sucking on her skin. But what does thinking her last name help, if she can’t ban those pictures from her mind.

„Why did I let that happen.“, Joan mutters before her stomach reminds her again of the reason she stopped here in the first place. 

Tugging her headphones from her ears and stuffing them in the pockets of her running shorts she doesn’t look up when she enters the café. 

„Joan? Joan Watson?“, someone stops her with a hand on her shoulder. She wants to brush it off. She always feels gross, even to her own touch, when she is running, no one is allowed to touch her in that sweaty after-workout state.

Joan turns around and looks into the face, grey eyes of Ste-, Sa-, something with a ‚S’ she’s fairly sure and forces a polite smile to appear on her lips. „Long time no see.“

„Yeah, well, you never called me back, so I figured you weren’t that much interested in a second date.“, he scratches the back of his neck and shrugs his shoulders. 

He’s got a point, Joan thinks. „I’m sorry, I was just really busy with work and family matters.“

„Still working with that Sherlock guy?“

Joan’s stomach grumbles again and they both share a laugh before she nods yes. „Speaking of him, I think I have to go. He probably already has a new case to work on.“

„Sure, sure. Was nice to see you again.“

„Same.“, she turns around to finally get to the counter when she hears S-WhatsHisName chuckle behind her.

„I never thought you’d be the type of woman for a tattoo on the back of her thigh.“

Frowning, Joan looks over her shoulder and sees his eyes firmly glued to her behind. 

 

#

 

Sitting on a park bench and sipping on her tea Joan is really not that surprised when the person that sits down next to her is Moriarty. 

„Good morning, Watson.“

Joan doesn’t answer, continues to drink her tea and watch a dog that’s running around, chasing a frisbee. 

„It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?“

She sighs and finally turns her head to look at Moriarty. „Small talk, really?“

Moriarty’s mouth curves into a smirk as she lets her gaze travel over Joan’s body, lingering at the mark that is probably visible again at her collar. Trying not to move a muscle, Joan watches as Moriarty’s eyes grow darker and more intense. When Moriarty looks up again Joan understands at least a little bit how last night could happen. Moriarty has the ability to lure someone in with just a look and by the way the smirk turns smug, she knows that all too well.

„I’m sorry I left this morning.“

A little humorless laugh escapes her throat, before she drinks the rest and throws away the paper cup. „No you’re not.“

Moriarty turns to sit sideways on the bench, left arm propped up on the backrest, laying her right hand on Joan’s forearm.

„Why, Watson, after last night, I thought you would be a little bit more delighted to see me.“

Joan makes a depreciating sound. She isn’t sure why she’s still here and not already at the brownstone, taking a shower and washing away the memories. Why she even came here in the first place. It isn’t the first time they are in this park and of course Moriarty knows that this is one of her running routes. Moriarty’s fingertips are caressing her skin, barely there touches that distract her train of thought.

„You’ve kept it, didn’t you Watson?“

Joan rolls her eyes and tries to ignore that Moriarty is leaning in more and more. „I don’t know what you’re talking about.“, she doesn’t believe her own lie as it leaves her mouth and the little chuckle she hears so close to her ear lets her know that Moriarty sees through it.

„My signature, my initials“, voice lowered to a whisper, Joan blushes against her will, Moriarty’s breath hot against her already heated cheek, „I always put them under my original artwork.“

„So now I’m some art piece of yours? How flattering.“, she deadpans. Joan knows this is wrong. This is Moriarty of all people, her heart shouldn’t beat that fast in her presence. At least not when it comes from physical attraction instead of fear, caution. „And here I thought you didn’t do originals.“

„Well, Watson, you are special. You intrigue me.“, the caressing touch travels higher until Moriarty’s fingers are playing with a strand of hair that has escaped Joan’s ponytail, „I want to know you, paint you, figure out and capture every complex part of your being.“ 

„Who says I will let you do all that?“, Joan wants to lean into the warmth that wafts off Moriarty. Instead she stands up, breaking all contact between them, crossing her arms over her chest. Why she isn’t fleeing, running away from this woman, this criminal, when her mind tries to knock some sense into her body the whole time, is beyond her. She’s rooted to the spot, can feel Moriarty’s gaze on her.

She hears the rustle of cloth and a heartbeat later, Moriarty’s presence is at her back. Not touching, but so close it could drive her insane.

„You want this, Joan.“, Moriarty’s voice has dropped, a husky purr, and now the pictures of this woman - naked, vulnerable, desirable - are back and clouding her better judgement, „You could have rubbed my signature off already since you noticed it 53 minutes ago, but you didn’t. Be my masterpiece, Joan.“

 

#

 

„It’s already fading.“, Jamie sits up, blanket forgotten at the food of the bed, watching Joan padding across the floor as she comes out of the bathroom. Hair damp from the shower and only clad in a towel. 

Joan raises an eyebrow. „Good. Bad enough, that Sherlock has seen the hickey last week, he doesn’t have to see your initials on me. I still can’t believe you used a waterproof marker for it.“, she mutters the last part under her breath, before she lets the towel drop to get into her clothes. Grabbing her underwear from the drawer in front of her, she flinches, nearly jumps, when a pair of warm, well-formed arms are wrapped around her waist. Jamie’s ways to move are as silent as they are elegant, reminding Joan of a mountain lioness. And Jamie, no _Moriarty,_ can be as deadly as one if she pleases.

Naked, they both let out a quiet sigh, when their bodies are flush against each other. In this room it is Jamie, not Moriarty. A woman Joan could fall for, if she isn’t already.

„Don’t blame me, when we both know you could have gotten rid of it easily with a bit more force or skin-friendly chemicals.“, Jamie mumbles, nose buried in Joan’s hair and fingers teasing, drawing circles around Joan’s hipbones. „I could always renew it, darling. I wouldn’t mind marking this canvas of mine again.“


End file.
